


Speechless

by chaosgroupie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-23 22:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosgroupie/pseuds/chaosgroupie
Summary: An accident left Abigail Greyson unable to talk. For almost four years, she lived under a cloud of anger and depression that weighed her down, making it near impossible for her to do anything else. Then she met him, blue eyes and a hidden past that intrigued her. He didn't speak at first either, but when he did, it was like her whole world changed. This is the story of how Bucky Barnes healed her.





	1. Contact

When my life changed for the better, I hadn't spoken in three years, ten months, twelve days, six hours, and thirty-two minutes. At first, I couldn't speak because of an injury to my vocal cords. Then, when it became apparent that I would probably never be able to sing again, I froze, unable to utter a single word. My therapist said is was psychosomatic, part of the reason I stopped seeing him.

I lost my friends, my job, even my family eventually gave up trying to get through to me. In almost four years, I hadn’t talked to anyone, so when he came into my life, I didn't know how to react. At first, he didn't speak either. Once he did, I found out his silence was from a trauma that scarred him, turning him into a person he didn’t recognize, making him hate who he had become. But in the end, we healed each other.

Maybe I should start over. I am, well I used to be, a professional singer. I was on Broadway for a number of years, always getting the leading roles. My favorite, to this day, was playing Christine in the Phantom of the Opera. That was my longest-running show. We had just celebrated our fourth anniversary of the show when it happened.

At the age of twenty-nine, I was mugged. The guy punched me in the throat so hard it severely damaged my vocal cords. I ended up needing to have several surgeries to repair them. Although the doctor said with rest and therapy I would eventually sound like myself again, he told me that I would most likely never be able to sing on stage again. The strain would simply be too much and do permanent damage, making my muteness irreversible.

My heart broke. The only thing I loved was being up on that stage, night after night, singing to a full theater. The rush I got when performing in front of a crowd of people, it was indescribable. I fell into a dark and deep depression that I couldn't escape, unable to find a reason to keep on going. My friends tried to help, but seeing as how they are all from that world, being around me made them realize that they could one day end up like me. A washed-up singer who had nothing to fall back on.

Not wanting people to give me pitying looks, I had even taken to hiding that scar by wearing high necked shirts. The scar ran from the middle of my throat, down below my collar bones. Normally, it wouldn’t have been so large, but the damage had been so extensive, they didn’t have a choice. I just hid it away, wearing long-sleeve shirts that would hide my damaged body.

My family stuck around for longer, but I never let them help me. My pain kept me from realizing that there were people who cared about me, people who wanted me to get better. My mother tried her best to get me to move home with her, away from New York, but I had lived there for so many years, I just couldn’t picture leaving. Even if I couldn’t do what I loved, I wanted to live in a place that felt like home. My hometown had ceased being that for me over a decade earlier.

That's how I ended up in a tiny apartment, barely 150 square feet, in one of the older areas of town. That's where this story starts. Three years, ten months, twelve days, six hours, and thirty-two minutes after my world ended.

Climbing the stairs to my apartment, I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs behind me. My hands were full of bags of groceries, so I moved to the side, allowing whomever it was to pass. The second I saw him, my breath caught in my throat. My next-door neighbor had moved in a few months ago, terrifying me every time I saw him.

He wasn't terrifying per se, but my response to him is what scared me more than the angry look on his face. I could sense the pain radiating from him, almost as if it were my own. The way he carried himself, I could tell he hurt. I couldn't tell if it was physical or psychological, but when I saw the pain in his blue eyes, I thought it was both. It probably didn't help that he never said a word to me, just deepening the mystery that surrounded him.

He passed me on the stairs, then stopped, turning back. A frown marred his face as he looked at the heavy bags I carried. Slowly, he approached me, like I was a horse about to spook, and held out his hands. I just shook my head, pressing myself harder against the wall. When his frown deepened and he gestured for me to give him the bags, I hesitated. I could use the help as I still had three flights of stairs to climb, but I didn't want to take advantage of him. He sighed, about to turn, when I decided to take a chance and held out one of my hands.

He took the bags from that hand, then held out his other hand. This time I frowned at him, shaking my head. I could see him start to get impatient and he gestured to the bags, then held out his hand again. I sighed and gave them to him as well. Then he turned and went up, moving faster than I ever would have been able to.

It took less than half the time it would have taken me to traverse that distance with him helping me. As we neared my door, he moved out of the way, letting me enter first. The tiny kitchen didn't have a lot of counter space, but he put the bags on it, then turned to leave.

I reached out, grabbing his left arm. At the same time he froze, I realized his arm felt a lot harder than it should. Quickly, I let him go and he turned back, frowning again. I grabbed the notebook out of my purse I kept for such occasions, writing inside.  _ Thank you. _

When he smiled, even though it could barely be considered a smile, my heart beat faster. His brilliant blue eyes seemed a little less heavy, a little less sad. For the first time in over three years, I found myself feeling the urge to smile back. Then he nodded and left my apartment, heading back to his own next door.

In the time I lived in this tiny little place, I made no friends, had no one over. But for some reason, I felt drawn to him. I wish I could have asked him his story, or at least said thank you out loud, but at least I was able to get across my appreciation. As I put away the groceries, I had a thought. Probably a bad idea, but I wanted to try.

I made my standard fair, spaghetti with marinara sauce, easy and cheap. But I also cooked some garlic bread, making sure that I had enough for two people. Covering the food so it wouldn’t get cold, I grabbed my pad of paper and wandered over to his door. As I knocked, I wondered what he would do if I invited him over. If he would join me, or frown at me with that angry look that he had most of the time.

He answered the door, and my heart broke for him. I could tell that he had little to no furniture, the only thing I could see behind him was a mattress on the floor with a sleeping bag atop it. It was hard to hide how little he had because our apartments were too small. He gave me a half-smile and I brought up the pad.  _ I made dinner. _ My neighbor looked at my note, then at my face. I tried to convey how much it would mean to me if he joined, but I must have done a poor job because he just shrugged then shook his head.

Taking the pad back, I tried again.  _ Let me feed you to say thank you. Please. _ He looked at the note and sighed, then nodded. I left him to lock up, heading back inside so I could get my tiny table set. When I looked at the meager fare as he entered the room, I sighed. He was a large man, larger than most I had met. Granted, men in the singing world didn’t tend to look like professional weight lifters, or like they could crush your skull with their little pinky, but he did. I grabbed some cooked sausage I had and held it up to him, raising an eyebrow. 

He shrugged, then nodded as I held it up again tapping my foot on the floor, demanding an answer. Taking out a skillet, I cut up a sausage it bite-sized pieces and fried it up so he could add it to his spaghetti. When he tried to get me to take some, I pulled my plate away. I like sausage, which is why I had it, but it was too expensive to have that often. With my meager budget, I survived on spaghetti and ramen more often than not.

He looked irritated but took the entire sausage. We ate in silence, which almost sounds like a joke, seeing as how I couldn’t talk and he hadn’t said a word to me since moving in, but it was oddly comforting. For someone so large and intimidating, he made me feel more at ease than I had in a long time. He made me feel safe.

Pulling out my pad, I wrote on it.  _ My name’s Abby. _ He looked at it, staring at the paper. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to write or not, so I held out the pen as well, but he just shook his head.

Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth, then closed it and frowned. I held out the paper and pen again, but he sighed, scrubbing his face with his hand. Coughing, he spoke, voice hoarse from disuse, “James.” Clearing his throat again, he said, “My name is James.”

Holding out my right hand, I waited for him to take it, then gave him a firm handshake like I’d been taught, giving him a big smile. The smile he gave me this time was slightly larger. He didn’t say anything else, but that was okay. I knew how tough it was to break out of a shell, self-imposed or not, so I didn’t want to push him into something that would make him uncomfortable.

Before he left, he helped me wash the dishes, drying them after I scrubbed. He stood inches away from me, the warmth of his body radiating toward mine. When he accidentally brushed against me without noticing, I froze, not wanting him to pull away again. It had been so long since someone touched me in any way, that even the slightest closeness made me feel… It made me feel. Something I had thought I couldn’t do anymore.

They say that people can become touch-starved, suffering because they haven’t had contact with anyone in a long time. It had been years since I let anyone get this close to me, and all I could think was that I wanted to wrap my arms around his waist, rest my head against his chest. I battled my instincts, not doing that, but it took most of my willpower to not do it.

As we finished, he turned and smiled, nodding at me before turning to go. This time, I let him leave, not wanting to upset him. My curiosity wanted to go and ask him all sorts of questions. Why did he have no furniture? Why was his left arm hard? Why did his voice sound like he hadn’t talked in months? But I couldn’t bring myself to do that to him. Someone might be well-meaning with their questions and prodding, but that doesn’t always equate to the person taking it well. I knew that if he asked me those kinds of questions, I would probably shut down. I had in the past.

It felt strange, wanting to be around someone. The last time I had wanted to be with people was before my accident. So having this stranger evoke a response, without even trying, it shocked me. My therapist, who I stopped seeing after only a few months, would have told me to encourage a relationship, even if it was something as simple as friendship. That getting back out in the world is the only way to heal. I didn’t know if that was true, but I knew that being around him made me feel, taking me out of the numb cocoon I had built around my soul.


	2. Furniture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, I'm sorry. But the next one is really long and very emotional. I wrote that chapter first, had to come back and finish this one. I really want to post the next chapter, so this one is going to stay kind of short.

It had been a week since dinner. James passed me in the hall sometimes but had gone back to being silent. The few hours we spent together made me realize what I had been missing. Made me realize that I needed people more than I had thought.

Grabbing my measuring tape, I left my apartment, heading next door. It wasn’t too early, around ten, but I wasn’t sure if he would be home, let alone awake. I knocked on the door, waiting patiently. Sounds came from behind the door, indicating that James was home. The door opened, and he looked at me, confused.

I just held up the measuring tape and ducked under his arm, pushing my way into his apartment. He didn’t try to stop, probably unsure of why I was there. Walking through the tiny space, I looked at what he had. Literally, the only thing there was a full-size mattress with a sleeping bag on top. It made my heart hurt to see it.

Still, I went over to it, using my measuring tape that I had brought over for this purpose. There wasn’t anything else to measure, so I had to at least pretend to be doing something with it.

James cleared his throat, his voice gravelly, “What are you doing?”

Walking back over to the door, I gestured for him to follow me. He just stood there, giving me a look that would have withered anyone else. But I had been dealing with difficult directors for my entire life, so his glare barely registered. Putting my hands on my hips, I cocked them to the side and tapped my foot, giving him my best impatient mom stare. He may not want to do this, but I was damn sure going to make him.

His entire posture just crumpled and he folded in on himself. I felt awful. Nothing had prepared me for this, for feeling like I had done something to hurt a person I cared about. Yes, I cared about James. Even having only known him for a short amount of time, he had wormed his way into my heart.

I backed up, mouthing to him,  _ I’m sorry _ .

When I reached the door to leave, he said softly, “Don’t go.” I turned back to him, confused. He held up a finger for me to wait, grabbed his sweatshirt, pulled it over his head and put on a baseball cap. “Alright, let’s go.”

I didn’t have a lot of money, what I had before was close to being depleted, which is why I lived where I did. And I knew that James didn’t have much either because of the little he had in his apartment. So I headed down the stairs, hoping he would follow me. I wanted to take him to a little thrift store I knew of that gave me a steep discount. The owner knew me from when I still sang on Broadway.

We entered the store and I headed straight for the furniture, stopping in front of a bed frame that looked like the right size. James looked at it, then at me, “I don’t need furniture, Abby.” I glared at him, “I don’t. I’m used to sleeping on the floor. Beds are too soft.”

Sighing, I moved over to the section that had decorative items, looking for something that would brighten up his space. But I stopped when I saw something that made my heart rate increase. A round black box sat on a shelf, something I recognized from the gift shop at my last show. My hands shook as I picked it up and turned it over, seeing the mechanism to wind it up.

I didn’t even notice James come up behind me as I opened the lid, the melody to Music of the Night playing. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. Everything came rushing back, the fear of being mugged, the aching sadness at losing the thing I loved more than anything.

His deep voice hummed a bit, then sang along with the melody, “ Close your eyes for your eyes will only tell the truth, and the truth isn't what you want to see. In the dark, it is easy to pretend, that the truth is what it ought to be.”

I turned around, my jaw falling open as I closed the music box. His face turned pink and he looked down at the box in my hands, “Phantom of the Opera is one of my favorite musicals. I saw it a few years ago, during one of my… assignments. It always stuck with me. There was this girl who sang in it, she played Christine, who had the voice of an angel.” My eyes started to well up with tears again, but he didn’t notice because he still looked at the box, “I wish I could go back and see her perform. She was… she was something.”

When he looked up at me, he saw tears rolling down my cheeks, “Hey, what’s wrong?” I couldn’t put into words what I was feeling, and I couldn’t tell him that I was that girl. How could I do that? I couldn’t even speak. To have him find out that I am the one he saw, that would break something inside of me that I wasn’t sure could be repaired.

Placing the box back on the shelf, I moved over to the bedding section. Even if he wouldn’t let me help get him furniture, he needed something on his bed other than a sleeping bag. As I rifled through bed sheets, he came to a halt beside me, “Abby, what are we doing here?” The pain in his voice stilled my hands, “I don’t need this… this stuff. I don’t deserve…” He ran a hand through his hair, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Turning, he left me standing there, hands buried in the bedsheets. I froze, shocked. Why didn’t he think he deserved to have creature comforts? What was going through his brain? My heart ached even more for my next-door neighbor. But, even if he wouldn’t let me, I was still going to get it for him.

I picked out two sets of sheets, then wandered over to the section that had comforters and pillows. I even picked up a gaudy decorative pillow. One of those ones that have the sequins that change from one color to another. All I wanted was to see a smile on his face. To take away some of the pain.

Then I went back to the decorative section, avoiding the shelf with the music box. I just couldn’t deal with my own pain while trying to help him. I found something that reminded me of him, an old-looking tiger statue. It looked like it had been made in the 1970s, but it still radiated with a fierceness that I could see in his eyes when they weren’t full of pain. It wasn’t much, but maybe he would enjoy it.

Carrying everything up the stairs by myself was not fun. I couldn’t blame him for leaving, but if he had stayed, the trip back would have been a lot easier. As I neared his door, I set the bags down and knocked. It took a few minutes, but he eventually opened the door, his hair fluffy, probably from running his fingers through it due to stress.

He looked at me, then at the bags, “Abby, what did you…”

I picked them up and slid under his arm, moving into his apartment. Setting them down, I pushed the sleeping bag off his bed, then got the bedsheets out. Methodically, I put them onto the bed, making sure to smooth them down. I could feel his eyes on me, but I didn’t want to see what his reaction was. I inserted pillows into the cases, then put the comforter on top of the sheets. Lastly, I pulled out the decorative pillow, smoothing all the sequins down in one direction, then moving them in the opposite direction in the pattern of a smiley face before putting it on the bed too.

I stood, holding the tiger in my hands. There really wasn’t any place to put it, but I found a space on his kitchen counter, placing it where he would see it. He looked so confused, so I grabbed his right hand pulling him over to the statue. I placed my hand on his chest, then pointed to the tiger. “I don’t understand.”

I felt so frustrated by my inability to communicate simple things. By my inability to just tell him what it meant. So I just shook my head then pulled him over to the bed and pointed. He looked down at the bed, face softening, “Why, Abby? I really don’t deserve…” I put my hand over his mouth, glaring at him. He pulled it away, smiling softly, “Thank you. You shouldn’t have, but thank you.”


	3. Journal

I woke to a knock on the door. When I got up and answered it, no one was there, but a padded envelope that had been leaning against the door fell against my feet. Picking it up, I realized that it was a little bit heavy. No addresses on the package, just _ Abby _ in neat handwriting.

After I closed the door, I tore open the package, seeing a worn book and a folded up piece of paper. Flipping through the book, I realized it was a journal, so I opened the paper first. The handwriting was the same on the outside of the package, crisp and easy to read.

_ Abby, _

_ I’m sorry that I ran out on you yesterday. Thanks for the stuff, but it really wasn’t necessary. I’m not worth all this effort. You’re sweet for thinking of me like that, but you would be better off if you stopped coming around. There are things about me that you don’t know. Things about my past that would make you run screaming if you knew the truth. Maybe you should know the truth, then you wouldn’t be so nice to me all the time. _ <strike> _ I can’t keep them from getting to you if you’re _ </strike> _ Please, just read this. It will let you know why you shouldn’t want to be around me. _

_J. Barnes_

I rubbed my cheek feeling wetness on my skin. Sometime during the letter, I had started crying without realizing it. Poor James, I don’t know what happened to him, but it must have been horrible for him to not want me to be around him. But who am I kidding, I did the same thing to my friends and family. The only difference being that I shut them out, pushing them away from me. Ignoring them every time they visited me in the hospital, not answering the door to my apartment. Whereas he was trying to get me to leave him.

I opened the journal. The first thing I saw was a picture of Captain America taped to a page.

As I flipped it, I saw harsh scrawl, like he had been upset or angry when writing. The name Steve was written over and over, large and small on the page.

_ Who is Steve? Why can’t I remember? _

_ Friend? Enemy? Mission? Who is he to me? Why do I feel like I know him? _

_ I’m with you ‘til the end of the line. What the hell does that mean? He said those words to me as I beat him, and they stilled my rage for a brief moment. Who the hell is Steve Rogers? When I think of his name, the first thing that comes to mind is a skinny kid getting beaten up. This man, he wasn’t anything like that kid. _

There was more of the same thing on this page. The same question over and over. _ Who is Steve? _ I could feel the anguish and terror in the words James wrote. He had pressed so hard into the page, I could feel the indents he made with the pen. Skipping a couple of pages, more of the same confusion, I saw something that popped out to me. The word HYDRA. In history class, we learned how Captain America had defeated HYDRA. I couldn’t imagine them still being around after all this time.

_ HYDRA. Evil bastards. What did they do to me? How did they turn me into this monster? How did they turn me into something that sees killing as a justifiable action? _

_ Pain. Cold. Terror. The chair. God, the chair. Where was he then? You left me there to die, Steve. Why? So much pain, over and over and over again. I screamed for you. Screamed for someone to help me. It felt like I was being ripped apart from the inside. Always hurting, never any relief from the pain. The things they did to me still give me nightmares. I never want anyone to have to know pain like that. _

The tears flowed more freely now. I didn’t know what HYDRA had done to him, but I could tell how much it hurt him to write those words down onto paper. I was so confused, Captain America had only been unfrozen a few years ago, so I didn’t know when he would have run into him.

_ When they told me you had died in a plane crash, I lost all hope. You were the only one that would think I was still alive. The only one that would come looking for me. The other soldiers told me that you thought I was dead when you made the suicide run deep into enemy territory for me. So even if you thought I was dead, you would have come for me. I should have known better when they taunted me, telling me that you couldn’t be bothered. But all I could think was that I didn’t deserve your friendship. That I didn’t deserve to be saved. _

_ The things they did to me… They tortured me, Stevie. Tortured me. To get me to comply, to make me a willing participant. Wiping my memory every time I got back from a mission. God, it was so much pain. Indescribable pain. When they injected me with the serum, my body tore itself apart, reknitting into a killing machine. A monster capable of irredeemable acts. I don’t even know myself anymore. The boy that went away to war, asking you to stay behind collecting scrap metal, he doesn’t exist anymore. _

_ Did the same thing happen to you? The pain of your body tearing itself apart, only to be put back together in a form you don’t recognize? Of course, it must have. You grew a foot and put on over a hundred pounds of muscle. My transformation wasn’t so drastic. Most of my change came from the mental torment they put me through. The things they did that made me this... this thing I've become. _

_ They captured me, but you came and found me. When I saw you, Steve, I couldn’t believe what you’d been turned into. You got your wish, becoming the hero you always were to me. A man capable of so much more than he thought. Just because you were a sickly kid from Brooklyn, doesn’t mean you didn’t have heart. You always stood up to the bad guys, before and after the serum. Your mother would be so proud of you. God, Stevie, I’m proud of you. I wish I could tell you that, tell you how much you mean to me. _

_ The memories aren’t all bad, some are good. I remember Coney Island, eating so many hotdogs that when we went on the rides, we puked into the trash cans after. I remember playing baseball after sneaking into the stadium to see where our heroes played. The guard that saw us, and instead of chasing off two young kids, he actually took us inside the locker rooms, showing us around. We even got a signed ball out of it. I wonder whatever happened to that ball? _

_ Remembering the pain of the serum, that’s what made me remember you. Remember my friend. We grew up together, taking the world by storm. My sisters, they would have loved to have seen you after the serum. Seen the man you grew up into. Arabella was half in love with you, even as a sickly short guy. After they ‘fixed’ you, she wouldn’t have been able to keep her hands off you. You could have been my brother for real, but even though you didn’t marry one of my sisters, you will always be a brother to me. _

Another picture, this time of a weary Steve and James, looking like they had just been through hell. I saw a mark on his cheek, the same place a scar was today.

_ We were so damn young, Stevie. To this day, we’ve barely aged, but time hasn’t been kind to either of us. You lost the love of your life by being locked in the ice, then thrust into a world you knew nothing about. Me, I was just tortured, wiped, tortured some more, and made to do despicable things. Our experiences changed us. Shaped us into what we have become. We had just gotten back from you rescuing me. That look on your face, the one that took no shit from anyone, I miss that look. You just went straight to Phillips, telling him to do his worst. But he couldn’t, not when you came back with almost all the men that were captured. Single handedly, you rescued us. You rescued me. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if you had left me there? Would things have been different? Maybe I could have just died there, then I wouldn't be responsible for all the things that I did after. _

There were wet marks on the page, I traced over them, making sure they weren’t from my tears. They were long since dry, having warped the page slightly. He had been crying while writing. My heart ached, wanting to pull him into my arms, tell him that everything would be okay.

_ When I think about that day, think about seeing you for the first time since before I shipped out to Italy, it makes me smile. Here was this little punk kid from Brooklyn, all grown up, fighting a war that none of us wanted to be in. When you asked us to join you in your fight against HYDRA, did you really expect us to say no? I wanted to say no, more than anything. I didn’t want to go back. All I wanted was to go home, find a girl, settle down, have a couple of kids and get a boring job. I didn’t want to fight anymore. I was so scared. Scared of dying. Scared of letting you down. Scared of letting the world down. But you made me believe in myself. Made me believe in something bigger than us. _

Another picture, this time of a group of men holding guns. James stood second from the right, looking so young, so small.

Now, he was about twice the size, much burlier than he had been. The uniforms in the pictures confused the hell out of me. It was common knowledge that Captain America crashed a plane with nuclear weapons into the Arctic in 1945. That means that James would have been in World War Two with him. The serum is what kept his body preserved while frozen, but that didn’t explain how James could still be alive seventy years later.

_ The Howling Commandos. All men you rescued from HYDRA, including myself. We would have followed you anywhere, Steve. To the ends of the Earth, to hell and back. And we did follow you into hell. I found your museum the other day, saw my name on their display, talking about how I was the only Howling Commando to lose my life in the fight. Sometimes, I wish I had died back then. Falling from the train, seeing your face as I fell… I was terrified, Steve. I’ve never been more scared in my entire life. How did I survive that fall? What the hell did HYDRA do to me the first time they captured me? I shouldn’t be alive right now, writing these words. That fall would have killed a normal man. I still can’t remember what they did to me back then, the first time. Maybe that’s a good thing. _

_ We killed so many of them, destroying their bases. Did you know that I had nightmares the entire time we were traveling around Europe, taking out their facilities, one after another? Did you hear me wake up screaming at night? I never wanted to go to war, never wanted to fight. My sisters sobbed for days when they found out I was drafted. And there you were, lying on your enlistment paperwork trying to get accepted. To what? To be killed overseas? For truth, justice, the American way? _

_ That’s all a lie. There is no truth, no justice. The America way is laughable. What did we fight for back then? Why did we go to war? All we knew was that there was a fight and people were needed to stop the bad guy. You were so gung ho about it. Wanting to make a difference. Wanting to change the world. You never did back down from a fight. Do you want to know something, Stevie? You are the reason I fought as hard as I did. Even before I was captured, before I knew that you had enlisted, you were the reason. Your bravery every damn day of our lives is what made me try my best to stay alive. I wanted to get back to my sisters, see them grow up. See them get married, have kids, live their lives. Why didn’t I get to do that? Why did I have to pay the price for this stupid war? _

_ Cu moartea toate diferențele dispar. _

The last sentence wasn’t in a language I had seen before. It took me several minutes to figure out that it was Romanian. How did a guy from New York learn Romanian? When I put it through the translator, it came back with ‘with death all differences disappear.’ That made absolutely no sense to me. So I put it into the search engine, hoping something would come back.

It was a proverb. The English equivalent being ‘it will all be the same a hundred years hence.’ With a little more research, I figured out it meant ‘trivial problems or mistakes of the present moment have no lasting significance or effect, so there is no point in worrying about them.’ To be honest, I didn’t think that James meant it that way when he wrote it. He struck me as the type of guy to say what he meant. So he probably meant to say that in death, differences disappear. Because it’s true, we all die in the end, no matter what our lives are like. We may be remembered by those we leave behind, but once dead, we all end up the same. Gone. Eventually, forgotten.

There was another picture, carefully placed into the book, not taped. It was a pencil drawing of a monkey on a tightrope, dressed suspiciously like Captain America.

_ Is this how you saw yourself? Performing for the masses? The guys told me after we got back how you came to the USO show and they threw tomatoes at you. Do you know how ashamed they were of that? By you were this punk kid standing on stage, already a captain without having seen combat. I can guess that when you signed up to get injected with the serum, you thought you would be doing good things. Instead, you got saddled with being a show pony, and for what? To raise money for the war? A war that had no end in sight? _

_ I know you had it bad, but dammit, so did I. You hated what you had become. What do you think about what I became? I became everything you stood against. Killer. Villain. Death. Everything I did after they captured me, it haunts me. The faces of those I’ve killed, I see them in my sleep every night. I remember the things I did to them. The pain I caused. You never did any of those things. Perfect Captain America, the hero we all deserved. The hero everyone loved. No one ever brings up the rest of the guys who fought and died. You got a damn museum, and what did they get, a tiny portion of your fame? A corner to talk about the men that followed you into battle, risking their lives because they knew what you were doing was the right thing? _

_ And now you’re what? An Avenger? What the hell is that? You guys destroyed half of New York City, our home. I know it wasn’t really the Avengers that did it, but the aliens. God, aliens. Who would have thought they actually existed? I would have loved to have seen that. To see the creatures flying through the air. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a sketchbook filled with drawings of them. _ <strike> _ Maybe if I ever see you again, you can show me. _ </strike>

_ Why did you have to convince me to go back? Why? Why couldn’t you have told me that it wasn’t my fight? Told me to go home, find a girl, have a family? It always ends in a fight, doesn’t it? ‘Til the end of the line. That stupid phrase again. It makes me want to scream every time I hear it rattling around in my head. What does that even mean? I loved you. Loved you like you were my brother. I would have followed you anywhere, before the serum and after. War terrified me, scared me down to my bones. I spent more time awake at night during our travels across Europe than I did asleep. Scared that they would come in the night and kill us. _

_ The train. That fucking train. Of all the stupid, dumbass things we did, careening down onto a moving train tops them all. Why did we think that was a good idea? Was there another way in? I don’t know. I thought I was dead. That fall, no one should have survived it. They found me at the bottom of the ravine, half dead from blood loss. My arm… The pain of losing my arm wasn’t even the worst pain I felt after that. My entire body was broken and bruised. The only reason I’m healed today is because of the serum. I think they injected me with some before you rescued me, otherwise, I would definitely be dead. But I could feel my life fading before they found me, dragging me back to camp. _

_ Pain. Pain. Pain. It was all I could think about. For days, weeks, months. Years. God, sometimes that’s all I can remember. Pain. My entire family is gone. My life is not my own. I’m hiding from the good guys, and I’m hiding from the bad guys. What else am I supposed to do? I’m a monster. _

The rest of the page was viciously crossed out, making it impossible to see what he had written. I flipped through, stopping at a list of names. I scanned them, seeing a couple that I recognized. John F. Kennedy, Howard and Maria Stark. There were probably over one hundred names on this and the next few pages. I skipped past them, coming up to another page with tiny, angry script.

_ I’ve done so many things I can never take back. The pain I’ve caused, I’m a monster. I killed a president, shot him in cold blood. The fact that HYDRA was controlling me doesn’t matter. I still did it. Me. Not some other asshole, me. I wasn’t strong enough to say no. To stop them from using me as a weapon. God, I wish I had been strong enough. _

_ Steve, what can I do to fix this? The list of names, people that HYDRA had me take out over the years. You were on ice for seventy years, I was an assassin. I killed more than this, but these are just the names I remember. I remember each of their faces. I remember the ways I killed them. Things that are too grisly to write down. I don’t even want to think about them, let alone put them into words. If anyone ever read this, I would be locked up for life. So many people died by my hand. I know that killing from a distance was always my thing, even during war when I was a sniper. And HYDRA had me do that. But they also used me to teach lessons that others wouldn’t forget. I’ve done things that give me nightmares. Things I can never forgive myself for. I can’t even begin to try and fix this, to make up for the things I've done. _

_ And the Starks. They didn’t deserve what was done to them. Especially Maria. All for that stupid serum. Why did Howard have to try and make it again? Why did he have to try and make more of you, Steve? If he had just said no, said that it was a bad idea, he might still be alive. He recognized me back then. Before I killed him, he looked into my eyes and said my name. Bucky. Who the hell is Bucky? It’s who I was, but not who I am. Am I the Winter Soldier? The killing machine that HYDRA made me into. Am I Bucky, the kid who had hope for a better and brighter future? The kid who just wanted to be happy, to make a difference. I wish I was still that kid. To be able to go back in time, see my family again. If only that were possible. _

_ I don’t deserve to be happy, not after what I’ve done. Maybe I should turn myself in. Take the punishment that I deserve. They’ll lock me up and throw away the key. Or maybe they'll put me down like a rabid dog. Maybe that’s the answer. I go in, guns blazing, forcing them to do what needs to be done. Who knows if I’ll hurt someone again? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, Steve. I’ve done so many horrible things. I can’t be that killer anymore. I can’t do it. _

I couldn’t read any more of his journal. My vision was blurry from the tears that hadn’t stopped since I read the letter, getting progressively worse with each passing line I read. I couldn’t believe that he thought this would make me hate him. Make me stay away from him.

From what I could infer, they forced him to do horrible things. He didn’t do them because he wanted to. Bad men didn’t feel guilt over their actions. They didn’t feel like they should be killed just because they hurt others. Good men, on the other hand, they felt guilt over everything bad. Even if it wasn’t their fault.

I grabbed the journal and found a blank page at the back of the book. My hands were shaking as I wrote him a quick note.

_ James, _

_ You are not a bad man. Bad men don’t feel like they need to repent. Bad men don’t have nightmares because of things they were forced to do. You aren’t going to be able to keep me away. I don’t know who it is you are hiding from, but it doesn’t need to be me. Never me. I will never look at you like you are something bad, no matter how hard you try to convince me you are evil. An evil man wouldn’t have helped me. An evil man wouldn’t have gone shopping with me. An evil man wouldn’t have taken the things I bought and gave me a smile, thanking me. If you were as evil as you think you are, you would have killed me already. Please listen to me when I say this. YOU ARE A GOOD MAN. You deserve to be happy, just like anyone else. Please don’t let what happened to you destroy the rest of your life. _

_ Always your friend, _

_ Abby _

I stuck my finger in the page so I wouldn’t lose it and went over to his apartment, banging on the door. Footsteps neared it, but the door didn’t open. I banged on the door again, not stopping until it opened and I saw his face. He looked so sad, so heartbroken. He probably thought I was there to give him hell, to treat him poorly for the things that he did. Instead, I handed him the journal, opening it to the page with my letter to him.

He read it, looking more and more confused. When he looked back up at me, I could see unshed tears glistening in his eyes. He said softly, “I’m not a…”

I placed a hand over his mouth, stopping him from completing the sentence. Then I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around his waist, holding him as tightly as I could. His body was stiff under my embrace, both from the muscles hidden underneath his baggy clothing, and his rigid posture. I held him until he relaxed, wrapping his arms around my back.

As he started to shake, I held him tighter, trying to tell him that he didn’t need to be strong for me. That he was allowed to cry, to grieve for the man he once was. To grieve for the man he didn’t ever get the chance to be. After several minutes, he pulled back and looked down at me. Tear tracks glistened on his cheeks and he tried to smile, but failed, “I’ve done so many horrible things. You should run in the other direction, Abby. Steer clear of me. I’m no good for anyone.”

I reached up, threading my hand in his hair. The other hand cupped his cheek, thumb rubbing the scruff on his face. Another reason I wished I could speak, to tell him that he was a good man. Instead, I smiled, then wiped the tears from his cheeks. I picked up the book from where he had dropped it, opened it to the page I wrote on, and added something.

_ You are worth more than you know, James. Life is worth living. I know it hurts, but you can’t shut yourself off from everyone and everything. Trust me, I know. _

As I handed it back to him, showing what I wrote, I realized something. The things I was telling him to avoid, were the same things I had been doing for years. My eyes widened as the thoughts passed through my head. To hide the look on my face, I hugged him, pressing my face into his chest.

He rubbed my back, “I wish I was everything you say I am, Abby. But I’m not.”

I pulled back, smacking his chest with my hand and glared at him. Opening my mouth to yell at him, I stopped when I remembered that I couldn’t speak. Instead, I just kept glaring at him, trying to get my point across that way.

He sighed, “Did you read the whole thing?” I held my hand up, rocking it from side to side in the universal gesture of sort of, “Did you read the part about the people I killed?” When I nodded, he closed his eyes and grimaced, “There were more than that. The things I did… I deserve much worse.”

I smacked his chest again, putting as much force behind it as I could. He laughed at my ineffective punishment, “Alright, I won’t say it again. But seriously, you should stay away from me. I don’t know when they’re going to come for me, but they are.” My eyebrows rose and he sighed, “HYDRA, the Avengers, the authorities… someone will find me, and when they do, anyone around me is going to get hurt.”

I touched his face, making sure he looked at me. I mouthed, _ I don’t care. _ Then I hugged him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I actually cried while writing this, so it's a very emotional chapter. I hope I did Bucky Barnes justice when I wrote what I thought could be in his journal.


	4. Time After Time

We sat on my bed, shoulders pressed against each other. I reached over his body, grabbing his left hand that he wore a glove on. He stiffened slightly, but we had been hanging out for over a month now, and I wanted to get to know him better. I tapped on the hard limb, remembering his journal when he talked about losing it.

“Abby,” his voice sounded strained. “Anything else, please.”

I looked into his eyes, saw the pain there and dropped his hand. There was nothing I wanted to do less than hurt him. So I pulled my arm back onto my lap, staring at my fingers as they twisted together. I could hear him breathing, not saying anything else.

Finally, he reached over with his flesh hand, intertwining his fingers with mine briefly, “Do you really want to know? To see it?” I nodded slightly, hoping that he noticed. Taking his hand back, he peeled off the glove and pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. His arm was metal, moving just like a real arm. He held it out to me, indicating to me that I could hold it.

I ran my fingers over the metal, marveling at how it seemed warm, almost like flesh. I could tell it wasn’t, but the warmth confused me. Pressing softly, I pushed against the metal, to see if it would move. It didn’t. At least knowing he had a metal arm helped me to understand why his arm had felt so hard that first day.

His voice was soft when he started to speak, “HYDRA did something to me when they first captured me. I don’t know what it was, but I think they may have injected some serum into me then. Not enough to change me, but enough that when I fell from the train, I survived. I don’t remember much from the fall, other than Steve’s terrified face, and being scared out of my mind. But somehow during the fall, my arm was ripped off.”

He pulled his arm back, lowering the sleeve, but not putting back on the glove. He intertwined his fingers with mine again, hiding his metal hand by his side. “I hate it so much. Sometimes, I wish they had just killed me. Or left me with only one arm. God, the things I can do with this thing, they are not something I would ever want you to have to know about.” When I turned to look at him, he smiled softly, “I could accidentally hurt you, so easily.”

I got on my knees and reached for the metal arm, not letting him hide it from me. Grabbing it, I placed it on my arm, putting my hand over it so he would close the fingers.  _ I trust you _ , I mouthed. He pulled his arm away, but I grabbed it again, twining my fingers with his metal ones. I brought it to my chest, holding it against my heart and looked into his eyes, smiling.

He didn’t pull away this time, but he still seemed sad, “Abby, I can’t be what you want from me.” He shook his head, “Don’t give me that look. I know what that means. You think I’m exaggerating, that I’m not as broken as I say I am.” He lifted his other hand up, tucking my hair behind my ear, “But I am. The things I endured, what you read didn’t even cover half of it. Just try to remember, I can’t undo what I’ve done. I’m not a good… The things I’ve done, no one would ever say that a good man would do those things. I know how you feel about me saying that and I may have been brainwashed, but I still did them. You deserve better than me.”

I tried to get up, to get my notebook so I could yell at him, but he held on tight, “I’m not going anywhere.” He stroked the side of my cheek with a finger, then gripped my chin. Not so tight it hurt, but tight enough I couldn’t move, “You’re so pure, so good. You deserve to find someone who makes your heart pound, makes your insides turn with desire. You deserve someone as good and pure as you are, Abby. I’m none of those things.”

Nodding my head, I reached up and pulled his hand away, placing it over my heart. My heart raced as I looked at him. Grabbing his metal hand, I placed it low on my belly. Holding them both against me, I looked at him. I cursed myself for not being able to speak. For not being able to tell him how I felt. I let go and climbed off the bed, getting my notebook. I wrote a simple sentence inside, handing it to him.  _ You are all those things to me. _

A week later, we were in the same position again. Our relationship never progressed past the point of holding hands and talking, and I was okay with that. He would talk about anything and I would listen. It got harder and harder to not hate myself for not even trying to speak when I had the chance. I couldn’t tell him how I felt, the words stuck in my throat. I could have written them, but it’s hard to really get across how you feel with the written word. It doesn’t have the same eloquence that speaking does. Nor does it convey the same emotion.

He laid down, putting his head on my lap and I ran my fingers through his hair, enjoying the soft sigh of happiness he let out. “What kind of story do you want today?” I tapped on his shoulder, the sign for a happy story. We had worked out these signs a while back. It made it easier when we talked. He chuckled, “How happy do want it? I’ve already told you most of the stories about Steve and I growing up, as well as stories about my sister.”

I laid my hand on his shoulder, rubbing it. It was his flesh shoulder, so he just groaned as I massaged the muscle. “Alright, how about I tell you about a woman I fell in love with?” As I glared down at him, he smiled, “Don’t worry, Abby, we haven’t been together in over twenty years. It was during my time as… She was an assassin too. They sent me to her, and while I was… him, we had a passionate love affair. Enough of me floated to the top sometimes that the feelings were real, but we haven’t spoken since it ended. I fell out of love with her a long time ago, but she was a great dame. You would like her.”

I went back to stroking his hair, gesturing for him to continue. He sighed, closing his eyes, “Her name was Natalia Romanova. God, she was gorgeous. Curvy, long red hair, legs that went on for days. And so passionate.” My fingers pulled at his hair and he looked at me, “You are more gorgeous to me than she ever was, sweetheart. I’m just trying to tell you what I was thinking, okay?” I nodded and he kept his eyes trained on me, “We were on a mission, and no, I’m not going to tell you what for. But it involved working in close quarters for a long time. It had been years since I had gotten laid, so we quickly fell into a place where it was easy to fuck each other senseless.”

His words said one thing, but his tone of voice said another. I could tell that while he was saying these things about this woman, he truly didn’t care for her anymore. Granted, she was a lot older by now, so maybe that was why. He must have seen the thoughts running through my head because he laughed. We had been hanging out long enough, that along with the taps on different body parts to indicate what kind of story I wanted, he could read my emotions fairly clearly.

He said, “I loved her, but it wasn’t really me at the time. I was more him than me. Now that I’m me again, I realize that she and I never would have worked. But it was fun.” He sat up, pulling me against his chest, flesh arm holding me against his chest, while his metal fingers intertwined with mine. At least he had gotten over his fear of accidentally hurting me with them, “I’m sorry. I was trying to tell you a happy story, and it turned into this.”

I looked up at him, gesturing for him to continue with the story. He frowned, “Are you sure?” I nodded and he smiled, “Okay. Natalia never let me give her any shit. Seriously, you would really like her. Maybe one day… No, nevermind, that’s a bad idea. She’s going by a different name now, Natasha Romanoff. Works with the Avengers.” My fingers tightened on his and rubbed my arm absently, “Yeah, she could find me in a heartbeat if she really wanted to. I’m guessing that she’s hidden that particular ability from the other Avengers, or they would be knocking down my door to get at me. That woman, she was so much better than me at everything that had to do with being an assassin and tracking people. Probably had something to do with the fact that she wasn’t brainwashed.”

“Before you get upset, she may not have had her memories wiped and then told to do things, but she was raised to believe the things she did were right. That they were in service to her home country, Russia. She was raised in a house full of girls, taught the art of killing from a young age.” He sighed as I pet his head, “She is pretty badass, dangerous with both a plastic spoon and a gun. Sometimes, I miss her. Not the sex, but just her craziness. I’m really glad that she finally gets to do something good. She always wanted to be better than she was, but she didn’t get to be because of her bosses.”

This time, we were at his apartment. He was laying on his back, hands beneath his head. My head rested on his chest, my fingers tracing patterns on his hard stomach. We had been laying there in silence for hours, just enjoying the quiet.

He cleared his throat, “Have you ever thought about the future? What you’d want to do one day?” I tapped once on his stomach for yes. “Have you ever thought about going back to singing?” My fingers dug into his shirt and he reached down, resting his hand on my back, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I know it’s hard for you. But you can’t live in the past. And don’t even try to glare at me, because I know you would. We’ve talked about this. You told me how the surgery left you unable to speak, but that your doctor thought that maybe one day you could get back to where you were.”

I kept my face away from him, so he wouldn’t see the tears that spilled. I knew he would feel them through his shirt, but I didn’t want him to see my anguish. While he knew that I used to sing and that I had to have surgery on my vocal cords, he didn't know everything. He didn't know that I was Christine, and he didn't know that I had been mugged. He continued, “You should try. You’re the one who taught me that life is worth living. To not run from the things that hurt us. I just want you to be happy.” I kept crying, this time burying my face into his shirt, my body shaking. His fingers tangled in my hair, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I won’t bring it up again.”

“You know, if I can ever get these deaths off my conscience, I would want to work for the VA. Helping others like myself,” he said. I knew he was talking to try and take my mind off things, and I loved him for it. Rolling over, I looked at him, “I want to make a difference, help people who are hurting. Teach them that it’s okay to hurt, but that their life isn’t over just because they lost a limb or a friend.”

Pushing myself up, I leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was the closest we had ever come to kissing, to pushing that imaginary boundary that we never cross. I ran my fingers down his face, smiling at him, trying to show him how happy his words made me. How happy I felt that he knew what he wanted out of life.

He reached up, cupping my cheek with his hand, “You make me a better person, Abby.” When I frowned, he chuckled, “I know, you think I’m a good person already. But even if I am, you make me want to be better. Before you, I had thought about turning myself in, ending my miserable existence one way or another. But you showed me there is more to life than sadness. You bring out the best parts of me, parts I thought I’d lost.”

I leaned down, lying half on him. We spent the next couple of hours lying like that, our arms wrapped around one another. The beat of his heart steady and soothing.


	5. Running Scared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a mention of a suicide attempt in this chapter. I put it in between two sets of ***** so you can skip it if you want. There is a mention of the scar in the next chapter, but it's brief.

“Come on,” James pulled at my hand, more excited than I had seen him in a long time. “You’ve never been to the Captain America museum. You’ve got to see it.”

I looked up at him, concerned. I knew what he went through the first time he saw it, the pain of remembering that time. Remembering what happened to him. He gave me a smile, “I know what you’re thinking, sweetheart, but you don’t need to worry. I’ve been going pretty often,” I felt even more confused by those words, “trying to get some of my memories back. They’re not all bad. I don’t wake up screaming very often, although that might have something to do with you sleeping in my arms than anything else.”

Over the months that we had been friends, James and I had grown incredibly close. We still never crossed that imaginary boundary, the one that would push us past friends and into becoming lovers, but we spent almost all of our spare time with one another. Most of it, at my apartment. At night, he would curl around my body, his metal arm resting against my stomach, holding me tight against him. Sometimes, I could feel his body grow aroused, but when he ignored it, so did I.

More than anything, I wanted to push us past that line, to kiss him as if nothing else mattered. But I couldn’t do it. I cared too much about him to take advantage of him like that. So I pretended like everything was fine, that I hadn’t fallen in love with him.

He still hid his metal hand when we went out in public, so I grabbed it, nodding for him to take me to the museum. We walked down the street, people ignoring us. New York City is a place where you can go to disappear. Even if people know who you are, they ignore you. When I was still singing, I would occasionally get stopped by fans, wanting to take a picture or get an autograph. But that hadn’t happened in years.

When we entered the museum, James gave the ticket lady money and she let us in. He pulled me past the parts about Captain America, to the display with his name and picture, stopping in front of it. Wrapping his arms around me from behind, he put his lips near my ear, “This is who I was. James Buchanan Barnes, the oldest child of four. My sisters, Arabella, Rebecca, and Sara, they were the best people I knew. I was eight when Arabella was born, Rebecca and Sara following in the next few years. So when I left, they all took it hard. My mother died…” He drew in a deep breath, “She died shortly after Sara was born and my father raised us after that. She would have loved you, sweetheart. Probably would have tried to have us get married.”

I turned my head so I could look up at him, surprised by his words. He chuckled, “You are the perfect woman, sweetheart. You’re good, pure, loving… everything my mother wanted for me in life. And I wouldn’t just tell you that if it wasn’t true.” He sighed, resting his chin on my shoulder, “I wish… I wish things were different. I wish I could be what you need from me.”

When I tried to turn around, he held me tighter, “No, sweetheart. Just let me say this. I already know the look you have in your eyes right now. The fiery determination, trying to get me to realize that I’m a good person. I still did things that I can never truly be free from. But… I finally feel like a good man, and that’s because of you. You make me want to be a better person.” He pulled back from me, grabbing my hand, and we started walking through the exhibit, looking at the different displays, “One of these days, they’re going to come for me. When that happens, you have to let them take me. You have to promise me that you won’t fight or argue with them.”

I glared at him, refusing to do what he asked. Stopping in front of the Howling Commandos display, he gripped both of my shoulders, “Promise me. I can survive prison, I can survive being brainwashed again. But I can’t survive losing you. I won’t be able to live with myself if anything happens to you.”

My expression softened and I reached up, cupping the side of his face with my palm. Looking into his eyes, I could see the genuine fear and worry he had for me, so I nodded. If it ever came down to it, if they ever actually came to take him away, I would do my best not to get hurt. I couldn’t bear to see him in pain, so I knew exactly what he was feeling.

He leaned down, resting his forehead against mine. Releasing a breath, he said softly, “Thank you, sweetheart. I know that you are not the type of girl to sit in the background quietly. It just makes me feel a lot happier knowing that you are going to be safe no matter what.”

We left the museum, hand in hand, walking around the city for a little while. On the walk back to the apartment building, James got tense, his hand tightening on mine. It was his flesh hand, and even though he had super strength, it didn’t hurt. I looked up at him, terrified when I saw the spooked faraway look in his eyes. I had seen that same look on his face when he woke up from a nightmare. He didn’t even notice me looking at him, just pulled me faster down the street, then into our building.

He carried me up the stairs, running to my apartment. When we got inside and he locked the door, looking around like a caged animal, I knew what must have happened. I walked up to him slowly, taking his face in my hands, petting him softly, trying to soothe him. When that didn’t work, I grabbed his flesh hand and put it over my chest, then took very deliberate slow breaths in and out. 

After a few minutes, his breathing slowed and he calmed down, slightly. He still looked like a caged animal, but he didn’t seem ready to jump out the window anymore. I ran my hands over his arms, looking at him with a question in my eyes. He sighed and pulled me over to the bed, forcing us both to lie down so he could hold me in his arms, “I saw… I’m pretty sure I saw Steve and Natasha.”

I pulled out of his arms and placed my hands on his shoulders, not noticing the flinch when I rubbed near his scar. He had never let me see the scar, it was something that he hated. Of course, I hadn’t shown him my scars either. We were both broken by what had happened to us, sharing bits of our lives with each other, but not everything. He didn’t know the whole truth about my… accident, and I was pretty sure I didn’t know everything about what he went through either.

But when he pulled away from me, I knew something was wrong. Frowning, I reached for him again, “I can’t, sweetheart. I can’t do this anymore.” He climbed off the bed, his voice dull and monotonous, “You need to stay away from me. I can’t…” He closed his eyes and gulped, “You know how I feel about my arm. I can’t be what you need, Abby. Just, let me go.”

He rushed out of the room, slamming the door as he left. I heard his door slam and got up, angry. What gave him the right to decide what I needed and what I didn’t? I picked up a vase from the one time he had bought me flowers and tossed it as hard as I could at the wall that connected our apartments. Then I opened my kitchen cupboards, taking out glass after glass, throwing it at the wall. I couldn’t scream, but tears ran down my face.

The door opened and he came back in, a worried look on his face. I ran over to him and pushed him back as hard as I could, angry that he would jerk my feelings around like this. The back of my fists hit his chest until he grabbed my arms and stilled them, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have… I have to go, sweetheart. If the Avengers are getting close, then HYDRA might be as well. While Steve won’t hurt you, HYDRA will.”

Anger bubbled up inside me and I wanted to scream. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out and I wrenched myself out of his arms. It wasn’t that he was leaving, it was that he didn’t trust me enough to see his pain. I pointed at his shoulder, the one where metal connected to flesh. He sighed, “I can’t, sweetheart. It’s not a pretty thing. I hate it, so fucking much. You couldn’t understand.”

I wanted to yell at him, shake him to make him realize that I understood. Instead, I did the next best thing. I pulled my shirt over my head, baring my body for him to see. He looked at the scars, his expression morphing into one of anguish. His voice was barely a whisper when he said, “Fuck, sweetheart, what happened?”

I walked over to him and moved behind him, showing him how the attacker had grabbed me, placing a hand over my mouth. Moving back in front of him, I mimicked screaming then made a fist, punching the air as hard as I could, over and over. Putting my hands on my throat, I coughed, showing him how I could barely breathe.

Then, I pointed to the scar on my stomach. Taking my hand, I imitated someone stabbing me. Then pulling it out, me pressing my hand against the wound trying to staunch the bleeding. His face got sadder with each passing moment I showed him what had happened.

*****

He grabbed my arm, the one with a six-inch-long ragged scar going from wrist, almost all the way to my forearm. “What about this one?” He touched it softly, “How did you get this one?” 

I placed a hand over my mouth to indicate that I couldn’t speak, couldn’t sing. I showed him how I had cried, been so depressed since I had lost everything. Then I showed him how I had taken a knife, slicing into my arm to end the pain. A tear ran down his cheek, “Fuck, sweetheart, how did you survive?”

I wished I could tell him that my mother had come over, bringing groceries since I wouldn’t shop for myself. But I couldn’t. He knew I survived, that was the only thing that mattered. 

*****

Taking a step back, he pulled his shirt over his head, showing me the scar where metal met flesh. He was right, it was a hideous scar, but it was part of him. Stepping closer, I reached out, hesitating when he flinched. But he grabbed my hand, putting it on top of the scar. I felt the rough flesh with my fingers, thinking about how much he had suffered in his lifetime. I leaned forward, pressing my lips against the skin, trying to show him that to me, he was beautiful, no matter what.

He started to shake and pulled me into his arms, face in the crook of my neck as he cried. I let him carry me over to the bed, lie me down, and pull me into his arms. We stayed like that for a long time. My hands running through his hair, trying to make him feel safe, while he held onto me as if he would lose me.

Pushing up, he climbed off the bed, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I have to go.” He went over and pulled on his shirt, not looking at me. I couldn’t speak, so he didn’t have to see the pain in my eyes if he didn’t look.

I opened my mouth, trying to say something, anything. Nothing came out. I tried again, coughing, trying to make my voice remember how to make sounds. When I finally did speak, my voice sounded rough, like I had swallowed steel wool, “Stay.”

His hand was on the doorknob, but he froze, looking back at me with an expression of wonder. I opened my mouth again, but nothing came out. I punched the bed, angry that I couldn’t express myself the way I wanted. My voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper, when I finally managed to say another word, “Please.”

He locked the door and came over to the bed, pulling me back into his arms. He sighed against me, “I have to leave in the morning. And don’t try to argue, I lo… I care too much about you to put you in danger. But I need you to promise me one thing.”

I looked at him and mouthed,  _ anything _ .

“Try. That’s all I’m asking is for you to try. Go to therapy, get your voice back. You deserve to be happy, sweetheart. Knowing that you are working on fixing yourself, that will make me happier than you can know while I’m… not here.” He looked at me, “Can you do that for me?”

I nodded and he smiled, the first genuine smile since we left the museum, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

The next morning, I woke alone in bed, a note on the bed next to me. It was written in James’s familiar neat handwriting, and I knew he wouldn’t be next door.

_ Abby, _

_ Remember your promise to me. Try. I know it will be hard, I know that it will hurt. You are more beautiful than you will ever know. Your scars, they don’t diminish the beauty I see when I look at you. And it’s not your looks that make you beautiful, it’s what I see inside. Your ability to make me laugh, to bring me out of my shell… The fact that you never let me get away with being a brooding asshole, or maybe it’s the fact that you smell like vanilla and lemons, a combination I never thought I would like, but on you it’s heaven. _

_ Try, sweetheart. Find your voice again, follow your passion. I will always look out for you, even if you can’t see me. _

_ Yours Always, _

_ J. Barnes _

Folding the note back up, I put it into my purse, wanting to keep it close to me. I got dressed and left the apartment. I knew what I had to do, even though I dreaded the thought with every fiber of my being. There was one person who could help me. One person whom I knew I could fall back on no matter what. He would be pissed at me for running off for four years, not letting him know I was okay, but he would get over it quickly.

I stepped inside the tall building, walking over to the desk. A familiar face sat there, looking at me in shock. His voice even sounded surprised, “Miss Greyson? Is that really you?” Aaron left his position behind the desk and came around the front, pulling me into a big bear hug. “We all thought the worst. You hadn’t been by in so long, I was being to think…”

I pulled back and laid my hand against his cheek briefly, trying to smile. He sighed and went back to his chair, “Are you here to see Mr. Stark?” I nodded, “Do you want to surprise him? Or should I call up and tell him you’re here?” I held up one finger, and he smiled, “Surprise it is. You know where the elevator is. He’s on the 53rd floor, probably in his lab.”

I mouthed,  _ thank you _ , then went to the private elevators. I had a keycard, so I swiped it and took the elevator up, getting nervous as to how he would react, seeing me for the first time in so long. The shirt I wore didn’t hide my surgical scar, and it still made me nervous. But James had a way of making me feel beautiful, and I wouldn’t diminish what we had by trivializing what he told me.

I exited the elevator, walking around the floor trying to find him. When I saw him through the glass wall of his lab, I placed a hand over my mouth. It had been so long, I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. He looked up, seeing me. His expression ranging from disbelief to shock, then he broke out in a huge grin and ran out of the lab, pulling me into his arms and twirling me around.

“Abby, kiddo, where have you been?” Tony put me down, cupping my face with his hands. “I’ve been worried sick for you. You wouldn’t let me help you, then you disappeared. I’ve been scared that something happened to you. That you were dead in a ditch somewhere.” A tear rolled down his cheek and I reached up to wipe it away, “God, your parents and I have been terrified for you. I could have helped you, given you a place to stay, helped you with therapy.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Frustrated, I pulled out my notebook and wrote.  _ I’m done running _ .

“Thank god for that.” He pulled me along to the living room, forcing me to sit on the couch. “Now, tell me everything.”

I thought about the last few months with James, not wanting to share those moments. I thought back to the pain I’d endured for years before I met him, thinking I would die alone and speechless. But I didn’t want to tell Tony that either. Instead, I wrote in my book again.

_ I’m sorry, Tony. I missed you too. I need your help. _

“Anything, kiddo. You’re my favorite, you know.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead, “Now, what can I do to help.”

_ I want to get my voice back. _

“I know just the thing.”


	6. Christine

Standing backstage, I took several deep breaths. It had been well over four years since I had last graced this stage as Christine, and my old boss was letting me kick it off with a special performance. Most of the performers were ones I had worked with, and they were all ecstatic that I was back. Except Melanie, my understudy. She had taken over after the attack and had risen to the level of a leading lady. Once I told her I wasn’t there to steal her job, she warmed up to me. But trying to be friends with these people again after so many years was difficult.

Out on the stage, my ex-boss was talking to the audience, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to tonight's special presentation of the Phantom of the Opera. As many of you know, we have a special guest who is going to be performing prior to the start of the show.” The audience started clapping and he waited until it died down, “Abigail Greyson was one of the best Christine’s I have ever had the pleasure to work with. I’ll let her tell her story, but I’m glad she’s back, even if for just one song. Before I bring her out here, how many of you came tonight because of Abby?”

I peered out at the audience and saw most, if not all, of the audience's hands raised and had to close my eyes t try not to cry. He chuckled, “Well, tonight's your lucky night. Miss Abigail Greyson everyone.” He held out his hand and I walked onto the stage to a standing ovation.

My dress did nothing to hide my scars. My long surgical scar stood out white against my tan skin, and the ragged scar on my arm was plainly visible. The dress was a simple one, if slightly theatrical. Tony had made me wear something nice, much nicer than I could afford. It had thin straps and a slight v-neck, tight to my waist, then flared out into a princess type skirt, without the petticoats underneath. In a deep burgundy color, it made me look a lot more beautiful than I had felt in a long time.

My ex-boss handed me the microphone, gave me a hug, then walked off the stage. The audience still clapped and I had to hold up a hand to get them to stop, “Thank you, everyone. Really, you don’t know how much this means to me. But please, take a seat. If you make me cry, I won’t be able to sing. I’m still working on rehabbing my voice.” Once everyone was seated, I walked closer to the edge of the stage, “First, I would like to thank Jack Clark for letting me grace this stage again. Four years ago, I thought I would never get to be in the place I had fallen in love with, but here I stand. Second, I would like to thank Tony Stark. He got me this gorgeous dress,” the audience cheered, “and since he owns the theater, it wasn’t that hard to convince him to help me out.”

I laughed and waved to where I knew Tony was seated even though I couldn’t see him. “When I approached Jack about doing a song, he wanted me to do the entire play. Unfortunately, my voice still isn’t strong enough for more than one or two songs, so I had to say no. In fact, tonight might be my last performance ever.” 

Several people in the audience yelled, “NO,” making me smile. 

“A little over four years ago, after a performance of Phantom, I was mugged on the way home. The attacker hit me in the throat to stop my screams and damaged my vocal cords so bad I had to have surgery. When the doctor said I would never be able to sing again, I withdrew into myself.” I took a steadying breath and closed my eyes briefly, thinking of James to try and draw strength from his memory, “I hadn’t spoken for three years, ten months, twelve days, six hours, and thirty-two minutes when I met him. Back then, that was how I measured time. How long it had been since I had uttered my last word. Now, if you expect a fairytale romance, this isn’t it. James was just as damaged as me, but through my time with him, I learned many things.”

“I learned that even unable to speak I was beautiful and worthy of being happy. I learned there was more to life than whether or not I could sing.” I ran a finger over my neck scar, “He taught me that just because we are scarred, that doesn’t mean we aren’t perfect just as we are. He is the most remarkable man and I am better for having known him. So James, wherever you are, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Without you, I would not be standing here today. I owe you more than I can ever repay."

The music started playing and I closed my eyes, reveling in being up on stage again, with music that I had loved since my mother took me to one of the original performances in the nineties.

_ Think of me, think of me fondly _  
_ When we've said goodbye _  
_ Remember me, once in a while _  
_ Please promise me you'll try _  
_ When you find that once again you long _  
_ To take your heart back and be free _  
_ If you ever find a moment _ _  
_Spare a thought for me

I thought back to the times of spent with James, the looks we'd shared. The stories he had told me of his youth growing up in the twenties and thirties, how different everything was. The fact that he was almost one hundred years old didn't bother me, neither did his past.

_ We never said our love was evergreen _  
_ Or as unchanging as the sea _  
_ But if you can still remember _  
_ Stop and think of me _  
_ Think of all the things _  
_ We've shared and seen _  
_ Don't think about the way _ _  
_Things might have been

I thought about his smile once he had warmed up to me. The way his blue eyes sparkled when he laughed, telling stories of his sisters. It wasn't even his body that I missed, but the deep tenor of his voice as he talked. He had only heard me say a few words before he left, and I couldn't help but want to cry that he couldn't be here to witness this.

_ Think of me, think of me waking _  
_ Silent and resigned _  
_ Imagine me trying too hard _  
_ To put you from my mind _  
_ Recall those days _  
_ Look back on all those times _  
_ Think of the things we'll never do _  
_ There will never be a day _ _  
_When I won't think of you

I knew that I would probably never see him again, and my heart ached. But just being lucky enough to have known him made me happy. His voice, smile, laugh… they had lightened my life, making me realize that there was something worth living for. That I couldn't shut myself off from the world, I had to let people in.

_ Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade _  
_ They have their season so do we _  
_ But please promise me that sometimes _ _  
_You will think of me

As the crowd stood at the conclusion of the song, clapping and yelling loudly, I let the tears fall. James was the best person I had ever met, worth more than any other person I had ever come into contact with. I just hoped that wherever he was, he thought of me and smiled, as I did of him.

Jack came back out, putting an arm around my shoulders and I looked over, seeing a dozen roses in his hand. He handed them to me, exchanging them for the microphone. "For only having been talking for six months, she sounded fantastic, didn't she?" The crowd screamed again, clapping even louder. He held up a hand, quieting them instantly, "She will be available after the performance for pictures and autographs. And now, onto the show."

Jack led me off the stage and I saw Tony standing there, beaming like a proud father. He pulled me into a tight hug, "That sounded beautiful, kiddo. Richer than it did before the accident." Grabbing my hand, he pulled me toward the side door, "Come on, I've got one of the balconies and I've brought friends. They want to meet you."

"Tony," my voice cracked and I brought my hand to my throat. I still wasn't 100% better, so my throat ached, "I'm not sure I…"

"Nonsense. They've heard about my goddaughter for years. If I had known where you were, I would have brought you in earlier."

I spoke softly, trying to conserve the last of my voice, "I wouldn't have let you. I needed the time away."

Before we entered the room, he turned to me, "Who was this James you were talking about?"

"James Barnes. He was my neighbor."

His eyes widened in shock, but I could tell he wasn't truly surprised, "Bucky, really?"

"You know him?" I couldn't believe that Tony knew the man that changed my life.

"It's a long story, but yes." He pushed open the door, and three people stood inside. A beautiful strawberry blonde who I knew was Pepper, a short gorgeous redhead, and a tall blonde man built a lot like James. He introduced me to the man first, "This is Steve Rogers."

I tried to school my expression, but I think I failed because I saw confusion radiating from Steve's eyes. James had told me so many stories of Steve from his childhood, but I had never expected to actually meet him. I tried to recover and held out my hand, "It's nice to meet you."

"You as well. You were spectacular out there." Steve release my hand and grinned, "Tony made us listen to the album from one of your earlier performances. You were good then, but now…" He placed and hand to his chest, leaning back slightly, "Blew me out of the water."

The redhead walked up and laughed, "What the old man here is trying to say, is that you rocked it out there." She held out her hand, "Natasha Romanoff."

I couldn't hide my expression this time. James had told me about Natalia Romanova, whom he had a passionate love affair with a couple of decades earlier. She didn't seem to be old enough, but then again, neither did James, and I knew he was going on a century old.

She chuckled at.my expression, "I take it you've heard of me."

"Um," I tried to think of what to say. "It's too long of a story to tell right now."

"No worries."

I walked over to Pepper and gave her a hug, "So when are you and Tony finally going to tie the knot?"

She laughed, "You'll have to ask him."

"Maybe I will." I heard music, "But right now, let's watch the show. I want to see how my understudy does."

After the show, I stood out in the lobby, a line forming in front of me. A professional photographer stood there, taking pictures of everyone with me. Some people had brought my old album for me to sign, others the playbill from the show tonight.

At the end of the line, I saw someone I thought I recognized, but I wasn't sure. He wore a pair of slacks and a dark sweater. His dark hair was short, face clean-shaven. If I knew him, I couldn't tell from this distance who he was.

The line continued until everyone was gone, leaving only the mystery man. When I looked up into his eyes, I realized who he was. "James," my voice was barely a whisper.

"Hey, beautiful," his hands in his pockets, he seemed shy. "You can call me Bucky if you want."

"What do you want?"

He looked shocked that I would ask. Finally, he answered, "Bucky. James was when I was attempting to hide, I'm not anymore."

I took a step closer, "What are you doing back?"

"I've been cleared of all wrongdoing. Steve and Tony vouched for me…"

"Tony?" I knew he hadn't been surprised when I told him who my James was. "Why weren't you on the balcony?"

"I wasn't sure I was coming," he moved closer until we were inches apart. "I missed you, so fucking much. I'm sorry I left you, but it was safer for you." Before I spoke, he put a finger to my lips, "I can tell your voice is strained, so you don't need to speak. You sounded absolutely breathtaking tonight, beautiful. I'm so glad you found your voice again. I only hope you can forgive me for leaving."

Cupping his face in my palms, I moved even closer until my body was flush with his, "There is nothing to forgive." I spoke softly, trying to get it all out before I couldn't anymore, "You are the reason I was up there. I love you Bucky Barnes, and I'm not afraid to say it. I only wish I could have said it before."

His eyes went soft and he breathed out, "I love you too."

"Then kiss me, dammit. I've been waiting months to feel your lips on…" His lips met mine, capturing them in a passionate kiss. He kissed me like I was the air he needed to breathe. Like I was the only thing tethering him to the world. When he pulled back, I smiled larger than I had since he left, "You better never leave me again, Mr. Barnes."

"Never again." He kissed me again, softer this time, "You are my happily ever after, Abby. There is no way I'd ever leave you if my own free will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one didn't seem to be as popular as some of my other marvel stories, so I posted the last 3 chapters all at once instead of making you wait. Hope you enjoyed this! I know it's not long and there's no sex, but I had an idea and wanted to write it.
> 
> Also, if you liked it, please think about subscribing. I might add more to this story later as I really like Abby and Bucky.


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